Suffering Alone
by Duilin
Summary: ...was one of my specialties.


**I couldn't sleep because of jet lag, and then my mind wandered to this.**

**Now, before you mention anything about my random bold letters, it was on purpose. You'll find out later why.**

**By the way, I screwed up the tenses so freaking badly...  
><strong>_I'm so terribly sorry. I suck at tenses when it comes to present-tense first person. What's past, what's present? When I have more time, I promise I will go back and revise this. _

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><p>I know it is time.<p>

I can feel the lycanthrope staring me down, and I return the gaze. Next to me, Beren is frozen, roused from his sleep when he heard the low growl of the creature before us. I shift into a crouching position, my shattered ankle protesting. My chains restrict me and hinder me from moving further than one inch past my nose, but that only makes it easier to **b**reak. The air is cold and frozen, and I wonder how much time has passed since the autumn evening we had left my dear city.

Will I die here?

"Lord Finrod!" Beren chokes out, trying to reach for me, but pulling back wearily as the werewolf snarls.

_He will not kill both of us_.

A fleeting decision—it engraves itself into my mind, and I break free of my chains, watching as the broken links soar forward, hitting the great, f**e**ll beast. He stays still, those eyes still watching me carefully, cautiously.

Before either of us can blink, he leaps at me, and everything slows down from there. I think of so many things as I tear fur from the wolf's mane, and a **c**hunk of the flesh as well. He roars in anger, but it is not audible to me, as my hearing fails me and my mind refocuses on something other than what I am facing down. My body takes initiative and goes on instinct. No more noble facade—no more well-mannered lord taught to give and not grab.

I think of my poor father, in Tirion with almost none to rule over. The majority of the Noldor has left the Undying Lands, and we are doomed. The s**a**dness in his eyes, the day I left, I still remember, and it is impossible to even try forgetting it. He watched me leave with my uncle, at the very end of his own host as he saw us—his children—leaving. He did not try to convince me not to go, because he knew I was a free spirit. I wonder, does he know of my fate now? Would he shed tears for my demise?

I think of Amarië, my beloved. I can still feel her soft hair slipping through my fingers of when I combed it gingerly, for it was the last time I ever did so—the last time I ever looked f**u**lly at her beauty, the last time I ever truly told her I loved her, with only sincerity attached. Would she ever forgive me, if I were to return in such a pitiful state, without even a body to form words and apologise?

I think of Fëanor, who is dead but his curse still lives on. Is he truly happy, bringing such a fate upon all of us? Would he have laughed madly if we had not followed him and hi**s** sons across that icy hell? I do not know. I do not understand why Fingolfin chose to follow him, but now he is dead as well.

I think of Celegorm and Curufin, wondering what they have done to my city—my beautiful domain that I had founded, and I only wish that I could have seen it one last time befor**e** I perished. When I awoke every morning, I would look around me, and a sense of recognition and pride would flow through me, enabling me to keep a calm demanour and continue about my daily activities. I would not be surprised, however, if they burnt down the nearest flammable object.

I think of the kind-hearted Dwarves of Ered Luin who aided me in building Nargothrond. It is really just too bad that the necklace would remain unworn **i**n my chambers.

I think of the Valar, wondering what the verdict of my punishment would be, for leaving Aman, and leaving them. Perhaps it wouldn't be too harsh, as I continuously thought to **m**yself when sitting in my chambers. Perhaps I have suffered enough to earn something less than what I would have received.

I think of Beren, subconsciously understanding the reason why I am giving up everything for him. Did I not tell my own sister of the reason why, tho**u**gh at the time it was unbeknownst to me? She could tell that I was confused, and I admit that I was.

Already, the wolf has torn my skin, teeth locked on my arm. I send the creature reeling backwards, kicking it into the side of the pit. There is a laceration pre**s**enting itself on my skin, and it starts to fill with red, overflowing and dripping down my arm, down from my fingernails, and onto the dirt. I can feel the sting, but it is nothing compared to those nights—those nights in which I showed a side of myself that I would never allow anyone other than myself to see. After all...does not every single Noldo have this odd feeling of..._masochism?_

_Who is that person in the mirror? Why does he look so happy...when he does not deserve it? He should not look happy, feel happy—**he needs to feel the pain that ****I feel!**_

I think of the rest of my seven half-cousins. What has become of them? Mayhap they will suffer the same destiny as their father. It was, after all, only ou**t** of love and loyalty that they followed him, yet they could not leave their mother either...yet they did. The Oath had destroyed them, and will continue to destroy them, and I pity their ends.

I think of Turgon, hoping he will live through whatever ordeal is presented to him—should a mortal traveller even come to his hidden city, his sanctuary, and become a comrade. As Námo said, it will end in doom, because it always, _always _ends in doom.

I think of Fingon, my strong cousin, always so mighty, named the Valiant because of his courage and audacity. He rescued Maedhros without so much as telling anyone except for his father, and now he rules as High King of the Noldor. He will probably hear of my death, and I hope that he will not act rashly as he once did, in Tirion, when jumping after me off of the cliff, and into the waterfall.

I think of Aredhel, for she had always been such an independent spirit. The last time I saw her, she looked faintly unhappy and wished for me to take her to Nargothrond, but Turgon refu**s**ed and insisted on keeping her safe in Gondolin. Though she may not have been willing to recognise it, she was safe in Gondolin, and she would have remained alive if she had not left to visit Celegorm. I heard that she bore a son, a talented smith.

I think of my deceased brothers, and I feel pity for Aegnor, for his requited love of Andreth never truly succeeded. O**u**t of love for him, she never wedded. Love was a delicate thing, and so easily shattered with one simple reaction—causing a chain reaction.

I think of my beautiful sister, Nerwen. She is radiant and wise, so brilliant and strong, and I hope she will not be angered by my decision to basically commit suicide, because I know she could not possibly misunderstand me. Would she have done the same if she received the friendship of man? She told me herself to be careful, to be wary of everyone I was not **f**amiliar with, but I am aware that she is discomfited by my way of living, and how I would never have an heir.

I think of Telporno, the one she loves, though both of them are slightly dense to their own feelings. If only I could stay alive a little longer **f**or them to bear me a niece or nephew! It would have dulled the pain of the fact that I would never be able to have children as long as I lived here, in this realm.

I think of Fingolfin, and how majestic he seemed, riding out to confront Morgoth. Without so much even warning us of his actions, he spurred Rochallor and rod**e** out to face the Enemy himself, and it was too late for us to follow. All we could do was ride out after him, but his anger was parallel to his speed, and none could come within a five mile radius of him. He brandished Ringil and leapt off of his horse, landing on his feet, spaced out, with his sword held in front of him defensively. I would never forget that moment. But what of Anairë, who knows that he has passed from his place? I will never know.

I think of Nerdanel, and I can feel sadness from her life of solitude. Before we had left Tirion, she left in the middle of Fëanor's speech to tend to the garden, he**r** face emotionless as she watered the flowers. Then, I had watched as her eyes slowly formed tears, and she watered the plants with her sorrows as well, the loss of every single son, and one never even stepped foot on Middle-earth.

I think of my mother, so delicate and fragile, and she used to hold us so tenderly, and though I never saw her after leaving the city, I knew she w**a**s weeping for the loss of her children, and I knew she would be able to feel the pain that each of us would meet at our deaths.

The wolf has his jaws locked around my neck, and my hands are strangling as I wring his with fading strength. I don't even feel the pain anymore, and I am bare**l**y conscious of Beren watching me with horror. I summon all of my willpower, and my fingers, slackening, tighten sharply, and the wolf falls limp. I am bleeding at the neck, and I gingerly feel the torn skin, the bare, raw flesh, and a desire to laugh overwhelms me as I look Beren in the eye with a feeling of triumph.

Dragging myself over to him, one arm limp and useless, one ankle shattered completely with no hopes of mending, and a body, broken and mangled, I crack a smile, but bl**o**od keeps flowing, like the words that spill out of my mouth in a final farwell. It drenches my tunic, staining the ground, and it reaches Beren's shoe, though he pulls away, shaking his head in shock and fear.

"Why?" Beren whispers, his face streaked with tears, grime, and blood. His voice cracks, and his sharp, cadet blue eyes are wide open as he draws his legs up to his chi**n** and wraps his arms around himself, shivering.

I think of all that I've done so far. My internal struggle for redemption.

I say, before I lose all sight of the light that does not exist in this hell—am I hallucinating, perhaps?— "I must suffer alone..." Darkness overwhlems me, but I gladly surrender and I know I am d**e**ad now.

I must suffer alone...this fate.

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><p><strong>Okay...<br>**Yes, I do not know what is wrong with me.  
><strong>Just to clear this up, before anyone asks me; no, I am not saying that Finrod was the only one who suffered. What I am getting at is the fact that he had to deal with his sorrows alone, like everyone else. But I just focused on him.<strong>

Now...go back and find the single bold letters (not counting giant phrases) and put the letters together in order, from top to bottom.

**That is the answer to the title explanation. If you've figured it out, good job!**


End file.
